


A fat mans world is nothing new

by deadman_withaheart



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: ... - Freeform, :(, Adult Losers Club (IT), Angst, Belly Kink, Ben Hanscom and Richie Tozier are best friends, Ben Hanscom is a good/concerned friend, Ben is baby, Benchie, Beverly Marsh and Richie Tozier are friends, Big Richie rights, Binging, Body Worship, But also, Comedian Richie Tozier, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, Messy eating, Multi, Nightmares, Out of Character, Platonic Relationships, Poor Richie Tozier, Self Esteem Issues, Soft Ben Hanscom, Soft Richie Tozier, Stanley Uris has issues, Steve is there, Stozier, Tags will be updated along with each chapter, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Weight Gain, bitchie, fat hands, fat richie tozier, from afar, hint at past abuse, it’s more fluff than kinky, kinda self deprecating language, mobility issues, obesity, platonic relationships that turn romantic, richie is Baby, sometimes, sorry - Freeform, stuckage, the clown is dead, this is a kink fic, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadman_withaheart/pseuds/deadman_withaheart
Summary: Six times each loser catches Richie in a compromising situation, and ‘helped’ him out, then the one time they didn’t.Edit*[Ch3 was revised a bit]*[ It costs you nothing to ignore my content if you don’t like it, and it costs you nothing but your time to comment something mean about it. Hope you enjoy reading it, though :) ]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier/Ben Hanscom, Richie Tozier/Beverly Marsh, Richie Tozier/Bill Denbrough, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, richie tozier/mike hanlon, the losers club/the losers club
Comments: 13
Kudos: 60





	1. Stan

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is just something I’ve been wanting to write for a while.  
> I’ve never really let myself indulge in any of my fantasies- I’m always ashamed to. Of course, the only fantasy I want to achieve is writing a work that I would enjoy- no something that makes me ‘excited my for the hell of it.
> 
> This story Is both a dream and nightmare, to me. As, I enjoy the angst/fluff of a story but, the subject is something very touchy to me so, by writing this, I feel like it would help better my writing skills and influence my anxiety in a good? Way?  
> I don’t know.
> 
> But, all I do know is that it took me a long time to finally getting around to this, and even longer to write it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story, as well it’s future updates, and don’t get angry at the mistakes made. I’m afraid I’m posting this at a very late hour and can not stay awake another moment to go over the story for the fourth time. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)

Richie likes to think he has enough mobility for a man his size. 

Being nearly, he’s 572, the big six-o-o he can do most things that others his size, and smaller, can’t.

Richie can walk up the stairs just fine- just a little winded- without any help, get up off the ground himself, stand for way much longer than most people think he does, and clean himself with barley any hassle. 

He just has to use a brush to get at the less so....easier places but, other than that, Richie is as happy as a buck in spring.

Yes, he’s not the healthiest- nor the smallest, compared to what he used to be- but he can be independent. He can do things without embarrassing himself by asking someone, mainly the losers, to help him in any certain way.  
No.

He’s perfectly capable of being a grown ass man, except-...

Except when it comes to getting unstuck from the bath tub. That one....that’s the only aspect of his ‘new big-boned’ body that is a bit irritating.

As well humiliating.

But, it’s not his size that makes him shy- or touchy- it’s how pathetic he is that he has to ask someone to help him. The shameful glances- well, he perceives them as shameful- he gets from whoever poor soul has the duty of getting his big, naked, flabby body unstuck from his porcelain tub just make his sensitive skin feel as if it’s been sun burned.

They way their bony fingers- maybe not even bony, they’re just so much of him it’s just feels like little sticks poking into his folds- grip his flesh when heaving him up leave behind bruises and scrapes.  
A striking purple, red comparison against his sheet white skin.

Richie always gets apologies afterwards- cause of the marks. They caress his plump cheek, wiping away tears that he didn’t know had escaped, and whisper sweet nothings into his ear between sucking on the fat of his double chin, or biting his soft shoulder.  
It just ends up scaring his skin with more violet, dark brown marks but, Richie doesn’t mind it.

They did just free him from a clean prison- wet him with warm water and soap to slide his chubby, thick roll filled sides out- after all. He knows they deserve a little something something in return for their services.

But, it doesn’t make it any less dreadful.

Richie remembers the first time he got stuck- he probably will forever- and, even as he lays in a bed with the people that will adore him at any size- even when he decides to lose weight- the flash backs to that day will always make his soft body jiggle with shivers and flush a deep, blinding red.

——

It was the first time any of the losers had seen him naked since that horrific, clown filled, summer.

( They had been a little shocked at his present size- probably expecting a dad bod more than anything-but, were really good at concealing the disgust? Surprise? with big, normal smiles and hugs. 

No one made jokes on his behalf. No one even took a second glance when his shirt got a little too tight from stuffing his face, or how loud his breathing got from just a simple walk down the wall. They treated him as if he were the same old ‘skinny’ trashmouth.

And, yeah. Maybe their eyes lingered a bit too long, hands sunk a bit too deep into his sides when hugging, and the way they tossed his self deprecating comments aside- especially Ben- to tell him he really did ‘grow into his looks’ were strange...but, he was just happy they didn’t throw him away like an old grocery bag full of water.

It was the first time- in a long time- that food wasn’t his main priority.)

The clown had been vanquished- no thanks to Richie- all thanks to Mike; who found a special ritual that could trap the fucking devil in a triangular cage and burn it alive. Just a ‘trick’ he had learned from spending the majority of his life in a library.

It was a damn good trick, too.

A blessing in disguise, really, as Richie didn’t believe he could’ve survived running away from that big ass Paul Bunyan statue without suffering a heart attack....let alone fit down the sewer drain.

He invited the losers to his bungalow- ‘you live in a mansion’- in California to celebrate.

The first loser- Stanley- wasn’t meant to show up til 6:30, his time, and he really needed to get on with cleaning his house.

Of course, being big, he couldn’t exactly clean the whole place, without a little help, himself. 

So, while he was takin a bath, Richie called for a quick swing-by house service. Strictly ordering the cleaning woman, or man, to limit their expertise to the living room and kitchen alone. They were not to go upstairs, nor to any guest rooms downstairs.  
He let the use the bathroom closets to the kitchen- he wasn’t an animal- and left a hearty tip on the kitchen counter with a note that gave them ‘free range’ of whatever food he had laying around in his cupboards.

His big stomach grumbled at the thought of food in that moment. He’d eaten a package of gummies, and chips that’d been washed down with the rest of a liter of coke just minutes before his agonizing walk up the stairs.  
It was taking a lot of power in him not to go wobbling down the steps in one of his dirty XXXL shirts, and sweat pants to grab the box of little Debbie cakes he’d left in one of the guest bedrooms but, the warm water and smell of cherry bubbles was stronger than his hunger- for once.

Leaning deeper into the bath- which was him basically shuffling down the back of the tub as his fat back pinched against the porcelain- the obese comedian let of a content sigh.

Running a fat hand through the water, he splashes a bit of soap on the dome of his stomach. Pilling it up and up into a soapy bubble till he deemed it big enough, and then smacking his thick hand down onto it.  
Sending the bubbles flying every which way- on his face, included- and the impact making his stomach bounce like jello. 

Richie’s chubby face broke into a full smile- fat cheeks covering his ears from view as his double chin dug into his soft chest- and repeated the process again.

His hunger was already starting to wane- attention now on the bubbles that flew over head and got caught in his dark hair like snowflakes-...but the excitement for the day sent his grossly, big body tingling.

Take out upon piles of take out were snugly wedged into his big oven- just steaming with the need to have someone plunge their meaty, fat hands into and shove into a waiting mouth.  
Dripping with grease that would, ultimately, coat people’s sticky fingers and cheeks with it’s juice. Smelling of nothing but delight.

Richie let out an involuntary moan at the thought- subconsciously rubbing the lowest part of his stomach, that he could reach, with his plump fingers.

‘ By god,’ Richie thought.’ Fuck the bath- I’m starving.’

His stomach let out an echoing growl in agreement, and Richie sent it wobbling wildly with his laugh. Water splashing over the sides and onto a red carpet that sat just inches from the tubs bottom.

Patting his fat- cheeks flushing at the way it seemed to ripple like an ocean wave- Richie pushed himself up from the back of the tub. His sides uncomfortably wedging themselves between the not so wide bathtub sides, bracing each fat arm, and pushed up-

Nothing happened.

Richie furrowed his brow, lips turning down into a very child-like frown. He tried again.

The water below him drastically dropped to his mid thigh- where it had nearly been covering his giant stomach- as he lifted himself just an inch. He smiled to himself in triumph- see! He could do it- as the sight of take out food reached closers and closer.  
Richie got himself- not even a full two inches- up from the tub bottom before, his bottom half completely cemented to the tub sides, and he was sent sliding back down into the water with a loud ‘oompfh!’ breathy between his thick lips.

A slight creak from the tub, the sound of his love handles screeching against the metal, and then nothing.

He was stuck.

Great.

At first, Richie didn’t freak out. He could get out of this situation- he’s done it once, before- it was easy. Just a dab of soap and-......oh shit.

While thinking, Richie had turned- barley, the fat under his arms limiting his ability to twist his upper body- to grab the bar of soap he kept on the soap bar... only to grasp thin air. 

His heart began to thunder in his chest.

He’d left the soap in his room, on his bed...along with a towel.

Fuck.

Richie was stuck.

He was stuck in a bath tub, filled with bubbles and Luke warm water- that would soon be stagnant cold tap water soon- and was as naked as the day he was born...

Great.

Richie started to panic. The upper part of his body that hung over his bath, because he couldn’t fit his whole body In the tub, was starting to feel ice cold. His thick legs were seemingly invisible beneath his mammoth stomach- pressed so tightly together that they actually raised his stomach up- they started to tingle with pins and needles.

That wasn’t good.

Richie’s face flushed red. He tried shoving his hands under on of his plump, side rolls- to somehow un-wedge it from the tub side- but the small contact space between his wide hips and big butt proved to be too small for his thick hands to get through.  
He didn’t settle for it, no. Richie visibly bit his tongue while trying grasp as much of his stomach as he could and lift it up. He cringed at the squeaking sound his fat made against the cistern but kept hosting his stomach- fat pooling through his sausage digits- further up his chest. 

The base of his stomach was just about in reach- the feel of skin thinning beneath fingers cluing Richie in on it. The fat accumulating on his chest pushed the chub of his cheeks upwards, hindering his vision- when, as a twinge in his back began to grow, he stopped his balancing on the base of his butt and feel backwards onto the back of the tub.  
His stomach successfully pinning him down- as well knocking the breathe out of him- with its massive weight.

His breathing became loud, and scratchy. Stomach rising and failing with the same speed of his lungs. It obscured his view of anything beyond the tub side.

Richie whimpered and uselessly kicked his fat legs- feet pathetically thumping against the vat’s drain- and sat in defeated silence as the water started to slowly drop until it was all gone.

Soap bubbles dried on his skin- turning a weird powder than made Richie’s skin itch- and the smell of cherry was staring be a pounding headache, as well a repulsive flavor to his sensitive nose.

Richie’s bottom lip starts to quiver. Tears pooling in the fat creases by his eyes.

He was stuck. Not ‘I can get out of here in a minute’ stuck. No, he was officially stuck until someone either noticed his absences and called the police, or one of the losers would find him

He would rather take the police.

Richie let a cold tear drip down the curve of his cheek and shivered.

It was curse for him to always be so hot but, now with the A/C on that normally stopped him from sweating like a pig, he was shaking like a dog in the mud.  
Soft velvet skin jolting at every push of cold air from the vent above his sink mirror. 

Richie was staring to think he’d freeze before anyone would find him. Like a fat deer stripped of his fur and stuck in a meat locker for the season. It was more torturous than when his manger, Steve, forced him to run on a treadmill for five minutes. The only reason being a movie position had been offered up- for someone around three to high two hundred pounds- and, of Richie had lost the extra 150 pounds, the position would of been his.

( He didn’t lose the weight, clearly, and got a voice acting role, instead.)

Plus, it was miserable- him sweating and breathing hard- but, that’d only been five years ago. When he was thirty six.

Richie new he had been smaller- a lot smaller- then. So, now being 41 and in the big five hundreds, he doubted he could even run on a treadmill at the lowest setting for thirty seconds.  
And not even that.

“ Richie! I’m here, the cleaning guy just left. Where are you?”

The sound of his front door chiming pulled Richie roughly out of his thoughts. His eyes widened and breathe staggered. Stan’s voice a striking fear in his heart.

It couldn’t be six thirty already? Could it?! He’d only been in the bath for thirty minutes?....or was it an hour? 

He didn’t have a clock in his bath room, and his phone was sitting on the desk drawer by his bedroom door. Time must of gotten away from him.

Oh how unfortunate.

Richie kicked his legs helplessly and gripped the edges of the tub above his head- the fat of his shoulders and arms squeezing his cheeks together.  
Struggling to pull himself up, face sweating red, Stan called out again.

“Richie! Where are you? This house is too fucking big, why do you even need these many rooms? Was a normal condo not big enough for your ego?” Stan’s voice was ascending the stairs. Foots steps stepping on a familiar creaking step at the end of the hall as he got closer to Richie room.

Richie was glad the jokes about him were still aimed at just his forehead, and ego cause, if Stan had made a joke about his stomach needing two beds to sleep on- as some twitter ‘fans’ had constantly tweeted at him- he probably would of started crying.

He probably was gonna cry, anyway.

Stan’s footsteps halted outside his bedroom door, and it was then that Richie thanked his past self for closing it. As the bathroom door was wide open and a clear shot to the hallway.

Richie’s arms started to strain as he wiggles against the tub, fat smacking like someone was fondling a big good of wet slime.  
His efforts resulted in nothing as his muscles gave way- a big gasp of hot breathe leaving his shriveled lungs- and fat back clapped upon the bathtubs ‘slip risk’ matt.

As if Richie would ever slip in a tub that he never stood up in- except to get out.

The shower head that loomed above taunted him like a mysterious crow.

Richie flipped it off and let his tried arm fall limply onto his side. Resulting in a loud ‘smacking’ sound that echoed throughout the bathroom.

The comedians ring tone chimed right after, but quickly cut off as Stan knocked on the bedroom door.

Richie started to sweat.

“Richie? Are you in there? Richie?” 

He stayed silent, head leaned back to watch the ceiling with a dreaded look on his face.

Stan pounded on the door again. Heavier this time.”Richie! I know you’re in there, I heard you phone. Can you please answer me? Bill texted the group chat and said he was going to bring the desert.”

Stan stopped to two something on his phone. The tips of his nails clicking against the screen along with the typing sound.

“ You didn’t respond, and he sent that almost two hours ago. He wants to know what you want.” More silence.

A tried sigh rattled against the flimsy bed room door. Stan rapped his knuckles against the door.

“ He also wanted me to check on you- well, everyone did, and me. You know how it is.....are you okay?” The question was so sincere, and soft. Richie shrank back into his fat neck. Shame filling all the way to his finger tips.

Of course they would be suspicious if Richie didn’t spam the chat with a list of deserts and pastries he’s been craving, or just saw on tv seconds ago. It was an uncommon thing of him to do, something any person who just met him or known him for years would take as a ‘red flag’.  
It was all in the size of his gut.

Richie bit his bottom lip. The chilly air was starting to seep past the layers of fat and into his bones. He was going to need help getting out of the tub- unless he magically started to sweat butter- anyway so, why not just get it over with.

The silence around him had started to grow thin- and Stan’s impatience’s was just radiating through the air.

He let out a sigh of defeat, loud enough for Stan to hear through the bedroom door, and wiggled his stiff, piggy toes.

Here goes nothing. 

“ Stan....I’m stuck.”

The curly haired man outside the door let his jaw drop in confusion. He studied the wood with a raised brow.

“What do you mean ‘you’re stuck’? Are you ok?” Stan gripped the door knob, trigger happy to open it when given the day so.”Do I need to come in?”

Richie looked down form the ceiling and to his vision of pale, red tinted skin. Stretch marks like blazes of fire were ripped up all down his arms, chest and thighs. The outlines of them irritated by the bare skin on clay struggling. His sides the same red as a good portion of his stomach rose higher than the porcelain edges and heavily hung in the still air. Squished and confined to a tight space that felt like it could of burst hours ago, had he been any bigger.

He ran a plump finger over one mark on his side- wincing slightly at the way in dipped slightly in contrast to the rest of him. 

“ I’m...I’m not okay...Stan, I’m...I’m stuck-“ His eyes squeezed shut, as if it pained him to say it.” I’m...fuckingstuckinthetub.”

Richie said the last part so fast it made Stan’s head spin. Had he heard that right?

He started to twist the knob.” Richie, are you okay? Do I need to call someone?” The door creaked open slightly. 

Richie chuckled through an upcoming sob.  
‘Yeah, call a fucking crane is what you need to do.’

“ No, I’m stuck, Stan. I’m stuck in my fucking bathtub and I’m cold and naked- I am not okay!” Richie blubbered, tears making his fleshy cheeks shine. He hiccuped through his try at breathing and let out a vocal sob.

Stan wasted no time in throwing the door open- catching it before it could leave a dent in the wall- and frantically be and to look around the messy room.  
“Richie! Richie?” His shoulders slightly deflated at the lack of his distressed friend.”Where are you?”

Richie chokes on his tears.” In the...in the bath but, wait!” Stan stopped himself short from entering the bathroom- thinking back to how Richie said he was naked, he picked up a stray t-shirt and stretchy pants. He stood still and listened with a weak heart as Richie sniffed sloppily.

“You can come in but....Will you....can...promise not to laugh? Please?” The comedians voice was the softest Stanley had heard in a while. He sounded so vulnerable, embarrassed that Stan felt as if he was about to cry along with him.

He wouldn’t, though. No, he would be strong for...whatever Richie is going through right now, and help him.

It was the least he could do for the man he’s secretly loved.

Taking a deep breath, eyes fluttering, he strode head first into the small bathroom- surprisingly, the smallest bathroom in the whole house- and froze.

Richie couldn’t see Stan as a whole, but the puff at dark drown hair that peaked from behind his stomach sent the obese man recoiling. He wasn’t ready for this.

And neither was Stan.

The sight was...definitely not what he had been expecting but, something he had pictured differently.

Richie’s stomach looked as soft and he knew it felt. Uncovered by a shirt that used to be baggy, but grew tight from the swell of food, it was a sight to behold.  
Red stretch marks shot like lighting up his cellulite covered stomach, and the thick hidden thighs beneath it. Beautiful marks most ladies would find repulsive but, something that looked extraordinarily perfect painted across the pale mans skin.  
A work of abstract art.

Stan felt his face flush a cold, white and didn’t dare uncover his crotch as he walked around the soiled red carpet and set himself down on the toilet seat.  
The only sitting spot that he was able to view of Richie’s flushed, sweaty face.  
He held himself back from the want to caress his friends adorably, helpless round cheek. Kind of embarrassed himself, actually, Stan was thankful Richie’s stomach acted as it’s own censor.

He didn’t know what would of occurred had it not been, and chose not to think of it.

Forcing his face to remain neutrally sympathetic, Stan shifted his knees to face the tub. Spine chilling when the cold surface knocked against his knees.

“ Richie.” It voice was level, not full of judgement nor disgust, but neither cascading a happy or sad emotion.” Richie, I’m not going to laugh at you.”

The words did nothing but make Richie bite his tongue. Mouth turned into a grimace, Richie turned his head as far as he could to face the one wall the bath tub was attached to. He couldn’t face it.

“ yeah...but, you’re disgusted.” Richie whispered, fingers mindlessly playing with a big of fat at his hip to soothe him.” you don’t have to lie...”

Stan’s face visibly dropped, but he quickly recovered and leaned his elbows on his knees. Chin resting in the center on his plam.  
“ What have I lied about, Richie? I’m not laughing...that’s not a lie...and I’m not disgusted..” He scratched at a place on his nose and sniffed.”...What am I lying about, Richie?” He asked so softly, and kind that Richie’s form relaxed a bit, and his head slightly turned to stare at Stan out of the corner of a red rimmed eye.

Stan’s calming, colorless eyes made his cheeks dust a light pink. There was no emotion- other than a strange sense of admiration and acceptance- that had Richie feeling threatened or made fun of at all.  
He, actually, felt.....okay.

Swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing unseen beneath his double chin, Richie licked his lips.” I...uh...I don’t know- I don’t know what you’re lying about...I.I don’t know.” Pointedly, He stares straight into Stan’s eyes. Anxiety slowly draining away as the other gave him a comforting smile.

“ That’s okay, Richie.” Stan let his arms dropped and leaned forward, chin resting in the tuba edge.” What did you think I was lying about? Hm?” Stan refrained from touching Richie, unless wanted to, and dragged his finger back and fourth on the white clay. Eyes greedy for every word that would come out of the trashmouth’s squished lips.

Richie felt sweat like his five head.” It’s...Its nothing, really.” He chuckled nervously.” Just...just something stupid, you shouldn’t worry about it.” Richie strained a smile, but the look Stan gave him clearly said that now was not the time for joking.  
He cleaned his throat. 

“I...uh...I thought-..Don’t you think this is funny?” Richie went out and asked, referencing to his whole mammoth body with one flick of the fat wrist.” Why aren’t you laughing at me right now? Taking pictures and sending them to TMZ- people have made real bank of off embarrassing celebrities in the past, I’ve heard. Why don’t you send something to the losers group chat? Talk about how my fucking fat ass can’t even- mmphf!”

Stan’s anger was steady to rise at the first question but, as Richie railed on about himself, it was near boiling. He silenced Richie with a skinny finger to his friends lips and pulled himself nose to nose with the fat man. Colorless eyes no longer calm but, filled with a quiet, seething anger.

No one was allowed to talk to Richie like that- berate him or embarrass him like that- not even the man himself.

Richie stared up at Stanley with big, confused eyes. It was cute, but he looked like a dumb, fat puppy that had just been yelled at for peeing on the rug. Stan let his finger up and caressed the mans warm cheek. No longer caring if he wanted to be touched, or not, Stan needed to comfort him with something other than words without warmth.  
He rubbed a thumb over soft skin and exhaled deeply.

“ Richie....how could you think that of me?” Stan seemed offended but, deep down, he was just disappointed in his childhood friends expectations.” Why would I do any of that to you? You’re my best friend, my rock. I love you...why would I deliberately try and hurt you?” His bottom lip slightly quivered, and he fixated a hand on rubbing soft circles into the hairy flab of Richie’s chest. Just...something to keep his emotions from straining too far.

He swallows thickly, and Richie stayed silent.” When Mike first called us all back- I didn’t want to go, Richie...I was scared...weak...I nearly...” The words got lodged in his throat, and plummeted back down to his stomach. He wasn’t yet ready to reveal his true intentions then...and he knew Richie wants ready for it either...no matter if he could guess, or not.

Stan wipes his nose with the end of his sleeve- something he knew Eddie would of raged about, had be been there- and took a moment to breath.

Richie wiggles beneath his touch. Skin lightly slapping against skin as the man’s legs struggle to get in a comfortable position and Stan was reminded of why he came in here in the first place.

“ We should talk about this late but, I love you Richie. The losers, we all love you. Thick, or thin. And don’t you ever doubt that.” Stan strictly stated, poking an extra flabby spot on Richie’s side.  
The comedian squirmed away from his touch, maybe he had gone a bit too hard, and sent his body shaking.

The blubber didn’t settle until Stan raised himself from the toilet seat and stood at the center of the bath with his hands on his hips. Thinking of what and how he was going to get the man- who’s almost tripple his size- out without having to do it forcefully.

Stan rubbed a thumb under his soft chin. It wasn’t anything compared to Richie’s but, it was just a little ‘fluffiness’- as his sweet ex, now friend, Patty has said- that brought his whole ‘serious but soft’ aura together.

He didn’t believe it, at first, it was just fat. But, looking at himself in the comedians small sink mirror, he had to agree.  
It was rather fitting for him.

Richie looked around the bathroom awkwardly as Stan stares off into a day dream. His skin was starting to become dry and itchy at the more soapy spots, and the cold begun to uncomfortably seal his thick sides to the smooth tubs sides.  
Plus, his feet were beginning to lose feeling. He needed to get up.

Coughing loudly, Richie blushed under Stan’s instant attention.” Um....Usually when I, uh...get stuck I use soap to, heh, wedge me out but...I left it in my bed.” Richie cringed at the uncomfortable chuckle that tumbled through his chest. 

Stan started down at him with a questioning expression, and Richie realized what he forgot to say.

“ So, um...do you think you could grab it for me?...To get unstuck, heh.” Richie was starting to wish he’d never invited the losers over in the first place. Dying of embarrassment was way worse- to him- than dying of starvation/pneumonia. Way worse.

Stan jerked out of his relaxed posture into someone stiff and nodded repeatedly.” Oh, yeah yeah yeah, I’ll get it- on the bed? Okay, cool.” Stan exited the bathroom in a flash, and Richie collapsed in relief as the strain of keeping his neck up was starting to cramp.  
His stomach rumbles loudly- a chuckle can be heard from the bed room- and Richie pats the fat lightly.

‘You’ll get food soon. Just wait, please.’ 

It was like cooing a scared animal to sleep. His stomach settled of echo rumbles and Stan re-emerges form Richie’s bed room with a bar of soap, and his phone in hand.

Stan gets on his knees beside the bath tub, Richie raises a brow but does not move his head to see, and waits patiently as Stan wets the soap with warm water from the faucet.  
The water coats Richie’s numb legs and sends a tingling sensation throughout his whole body. It’s almost orgasmic.

They sit in comfortable silence as Stan scrubs his sides with soap. Only breaking the streak to warn Richie as he lifts up a fold that had been squished against the tub side, and continues to scrub until he can’t reach any lower.

Stan smiles and sits back on his heels with a exhausted huff. His arms shook from the heavy lifting and hands felt pruny and slimy from the soap.  
Standing up to rinse his hands- aware of the pair of eyes that seemed to burn unashamed holes in his backside- he scrubbed away the soap with a hand towel. If any thing came out of this- besides the aching feel in his stomach- Stan’s hands were now softer than a clouds. He dried them, respectively, and came back to Richie’s side. 

“ Okay, Richie, on three I’m going to hoist you up.” Stan intertwined his hands with Richie’s much thicker, and sweatier ones.” Okay?” He awaited Richie’s nod.

The comedian leaned back into his thick neck, double chin basically swallowing his jaw line, and bit his lip. It was the most embarrassing thing to happen to him but, the cold icky feeling of soap against his skin and the air was something he would rather live without.  
And, with a tentative nod, Richie readied himself.

Stan nodded back and made sure his grip on Richie’s hands was tight, and then bent his knees.

“ Okay...Okay, Richie. On one...two...three!”

Pulling with all his might, Richie’s soapy rolls slipped over the porcelain sides- not getting dryly stuck, once- and would of kept going until Richie was sitting straight up in the tub, again.  
His aching back tingling from the cold air.

Richie let out a sigh of relief the same time as Stan took a moment to catch his breath.

A chime from Richie’s phone caught both of their attentions.

Stan swiped the phone off the sink counter and squinted to make out the bright notification.

“ From Big Billy ;) “ Stan rolled his eyes fondly at the nick name and read the message.

“Outside with the deserts. Doors locked and I kinda got my hands full, can you come let me in.” 

Stan went to swipe the message for a reply, but realized he didn’t know the password, and handed Richie the phone wordlessly.

The comedian quirked a brow at the accountant but took the phone without question. Staring down at the screen- the light just enhancing the curves of his chubby face, Richie swiped a meaty finger over the device and quickly typed something out.  
Stopping to read over it once, and then again, Richie nodded to himself and sent it.

Handing Stan back the phone- who then placed it back down onto the counter without a second glance- Richie braced his hands on either side of the tub and pushed.  
It was a smooth slip. His fat popping out of the tub with a thick suction cup noise and chunky legs straining to get themselves underneath him.

Stan stayed beside Richie- arms outstretched incase he slipped or needed support- and watched in astonishment as the obese man seemed to just...fly up without a hassle. As if he were a normal sized man, at a normal sized weight.

Stanley was intrigued. The tips of his fingers burned with lust to sink into the countless folds of Richie’s back. Mouth watering at the thought of sucking on Richie’s soft, sensitive skin at the inside of his cellulite covered thighs.  
He wanted to touch the beauty- craves it- but Richie broke his fantasy by swinging one gigantic leg over the side of the tub- shaking both the ground, and himself, at its weight- and pushing Stan backwards out the door with his jutting stomach.

Richie’s face burned at the exertion as he swung the other leg out of the tub. He took a moment to collect his loud breathing- arms bolstered to keep him from falling over the edge in exhaustion. Completely unashamed at the fact his giant, dimple ridden ass was basically up in Stan’s face.

But, why was he to care now? Stan Just basically fondled his love handles...no time to regret anything now.

‘ Especially this...’ Richie thought, scratching a dusty place on his side.

And, just like that, after two grueling hours of cold air and ‘suffocation’, Richie was free of the tub.

Stan shielded his bulging eyes- out of Richie’s own bold indecency- and blabbered out a jumbled excuse about him ‘going to let Bill in’.  
He strides out of the room in a flash of blushing red, leaving Richie to stand alone with his whole naked body hanging out- knees warming up against the blanket of flab that was his huge hanging stomach- and sides dripping soap.

It would be a while before Richie finally forced himself to leave the tub side and wash the extra soap from his body. This time just with a small hand towel. 

Another few minutes would cost him the struggle of slipping on a 4XL shirt that squeezed his folds just right and stretchy pants that’s elastic band was being tested every day by the comedians expanding waist line.

At 7:12, Richie finally descended the stairs and was greeted with a round of cheers and big hugs- ones that gripped his back folds more than necessary- from each loser. Even Stan.  
He sat on the newly cleaned couch in his spotless living room, a plate of cookies and strawberry cheese cake with a glass of milk somehow appearing in his hands, and let himself enjoy the company of his friends without stress.

And, if he saw the way Stan and Bill’s eyes gave him a little bit more attention than they normally did, Richie didn’t comment on it.

He just imitated a fat Elvis, and stuffed his face with cheesecake.

What conspired upstairs was meant to be kept upstairs.

And nothing more.


	2. Bill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go swimming. Bill sees much more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am posting this at 11 o’clock so, I’m sorry for any errors I’ve missed or spelling mistakes as, I am clearly finished with this long chapter and do not wish to prompt myself with more material on it- as it is very much filled with enough material.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! :))

The cheesecake stuffing halted at the second empty tin. Setting his icing splattered plate on the expansion of his tummy, Richie licked stubby fingers clean with a cookie crumb coated tongue. Subconscious moans vibrating against his digits. 

Back ground noise seemed to buzz in the farthest corner of his food high induced mind as, without warning, he stuck the whole of his middle finger in to his mouth and sucked off the sweet desert with a sloppy ‘pop!’. Richie would of been disgusted with himself years ago, had he even though of licking his fingers, and would of simply used a napkin but- he was in the comfort of friends....close friends.  
He let himself relax.

Beyond his fat hands, all the other losers were engaged in conversation. Plates of half eaten food and drinks left to the side as their hunger was satisfied from simply two bites of the rich cake.  
Buying the dozens of cookies with cheese cake might of been a bit too much, Bill had to say but, with the way Richie seemed to inhale the cake, he knew it was the right investment.

Eyeing Stan out of the coroner of his eye hand the trashmouth a napkin, Bill tags on to the conversation Eddie was having with Bev. 

“- and she just. Let. Him. In. Like, what the fuck did she think was going to happen? A stranger enters her house with NO reason and she’s like ‘this is fine, this is okay, I’m not going to get mustered!” Eddie threw his hands up in exasperation, his rant about a latest new horror movie- Bill likes to think it started with ‘the’- bringing out the worst in him.

“ And she was! How lazy of a writer do you have to be to just think that any women would fucking let a random man inside? Wasted twenty dollars just to watch her run around for two hours and then, at the very end, just fucking die!”

Eddie bounces back into his chair with an angry huff as Beverly nods her head in agreement.

“ Sounds like every classic horror movie.” She sips her drink, a glass of sour lemonade, and rest her elbow on the couch arm rest. Chin planted in the center of her palm.” Stupid characters, stupid decisions, and stupid endings.” 

Eddie crosses his arms and taps his fingers against his elbow.” Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an ending as worse as that one since I got Bill’s last book.” With a smirk, he jabs his finger over to the writer. Aware he had been listening the whole time.

Beverly stifles a laugh and lightly slaps the risk analysts arm.” Don’t be rude, Eddie.’ She says, trying to reprimand him but, fails with a loud snort. 

Bill gives a convincing frown and Beverly smiles at him apologetically.

“ Sorry, Bill.” She laughs again as Bill’s from twists up into a smile. He leans back into his seat beside Mike and crosses his arms in the same fashion as Eddie.

“ It’s no biggie. I’m just glad there’s others out there that’s endings are said to be WORSE than mine.” He chuckles, smacking his gum.” It’s a real relief.”

A chorus of laughs circle around the room. Bill watches all the losers faces break out into a series of wrinkles, due to old age, but stops at the single big person in the room.  
Watching suspiciously as Stan smiles and takes a napkin to wipe a glob of icing off Richie’s cheek, Bill hunches over his knees and rest his hands between them.

“ Speaking of relief, what took you so long in the bathroom, Richie? You getting one off?”

Stan quickly pulled his hand back, face turning a deep red, as Richie’s eyes visibly widened at the authors bold question.  
The other losers gave fake gags- Beverly sticking a finger down her throat, and sticking her tongue out as she did it- and recoils back in a variety of disgust.

Richie, momentarily shocked like a baby hearing sound for the first time, slowly let a smile slide onto his round face. Lips puckered together slyly.

“ A man never wanks and tells, Denbrough. You, of all men, should know that.”

Bill lets a laugh rumble through his throat, but presses on. The left side of his face brining at Stan’s blank stare.  
He smiles to himself then blows a bubble with his gum.

“ Ah, gonna do that to me, huh? Come on, you don’t have to lie to us, trashmouth. What were you doing? Kissin’ yourself in the mirror? Taking a romantic bath in the dark with a picture of Mulaney?” Bill raises his brows jokingly, a heavy weight of pride settling in his chest as Stan digs his finger nails into the leather couch.

Bill lets Mike slap his back but doesn’t release the slight anger brewing in his stomach when Richie bites his lip with a fearful look. A drop of sweat- either from the heat of his question, or just how heavy the man was breathing- rolls down his face and gets caught between the crease of his double chin.

Bill could not fathom why.

It was a clever joke. One that Richie would of appreciated with a sonorous laugh that made his stomach bounce out of his tight Hawaiian button down. Conduct oozing tears that gathered in the corner of his fat, squinted eyes as his mouth gasped for breathes of air that left him suffocating.  
Yes, he could appreciate a fine joke but, the past filled him with too much indignity for that, now.

Principally jests related to bathrooms and of the sorts. He couldn’t find the strength in his brim filled body to laugh without the fear of vomiting on thin cloth concealed tits.

Not even when directed away from the elephant in the room.

Richie hides his tensile wince behind the dirtied napkin. And, by stark force of will, was he able to hinder his blush down to a misty glow as all losers slapped each other’s knees and snorted into their drinks. The individual boisterous laugher but a wounding throb in his off colored heart.

Stan, setting down the messy plate, forced a smile onto his vacuous face. Laughter nothing but a breathy, unweighted, wheeze in the mix of Beverly’s snorts and Ben’s haunting gasps.  
His eyes remained plastered to the bits of dried desert on the dish, but a wondering slim hand wedged it’s scheme into a gap created by the resting of Richie’s mountainous middle on a set of quivering thighs. Worming its way under the folds of fat, hand enveloped in a doughy spread, he pinched at the swell of adipose aided by the opposing thigh being compressed to the other. 

It was meant to be a comforting gesture, for himself but, what it felt like was an attempt at finding Richie’s wang.  
Lord knows how long it’s been since the mans seen the thing himself- having only gotten off in the past few years by chubby chasers and one night stands alone-it’s probably gone. 

He gives the swell of a fat a squeeze. The flinch of Richie’s thigh cascading warmth down his spine.

It was fine. He was fine.

Richie balled up the food stained tissue in sweaty palms and decided not to toss it away just yet. Mostly because it acted as a weight- other than his tongue- for him to focus his anxiety on but, also the thought of trying to toss the trash into the pile on his table and missing was a big embarrassment within his busy mind.

He could just lean forward and set it down. Simple as that...but his puffy stomach was digesting nearly two pounds of thick cream covered cheese cake. A food that acted as twelve pound cinder blocks in his bubbling tummy. 

Plus Richie wouldn’t of been able to sit up by himself, even if his tum was empty, anyway.

...

Across from Richie, Ben’s face had turned a beat red from holding in his cackles. A fist was pressed tightly over his mouth, cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk, as he rolled onto one side of the opposite couch he, Mike, and Eddie were on. Hiding his face.

Richie licked strawberry flavored lips. His stomach already hungry for more as the taste spread across his tongue, and sweet flavored saliva pooled into his belly while swallowing.

It wasn’t the funniest joke...not even a joke, Bill had made. But, the losers still laughed...and Richie began to think they were laughing at the situation of it all.

‘ They know..’ He thought, eyeing a confused Stan.’ They know you were too fat to get out of the tub- they know you’re a lard ass, just look at you. You used to be so handsome. Pig.’

Sickness began to root deep within him as Beverly- who sat a little too close- beside him bounced on the couch with a fluttering laugh. Straining the buttons more as his stomach surged forward.

A soundless whimper vibrated in his throat.

Stan gripped his thigh with tense fingers.

The notion that none of them knew nothing of what the joke would impose on him was like a forbidden secret. Something that members in the CIA would hide from their loved ones, maybe an impending threat of war, that they believed would be beneficial to reveal. Though, if they did, there would be disastrous consequences.

Dramatic as it might seem- that’s how it felt.  
Richie was made for the theatre. He craves the spot light and all its little gifts that come with it.  
Fame Fortune, Love- Just to name a few.

He was the king and jester at his own game. A player to the complicated game of emotions that was easily mastered by understanding.

What idiot wouldn’t want the popularity that a simple script would give them? A tragic backstory that would bring the interested to their knees, hands to their hearts, and eyes locked in a fierce battle to suck the tears of romanticism from spilling from their melancholy brain. 

Richie was, to put in a non-offensive way, a slut for drama. He could talk for hours and hours about an altercation that lasted only seconds, but still make it a story to those who are brave enough to listen a tale for the ages. Or even a life lesson for following In times of need.

Either way, acting was a perfect job for a man of Richie’s talents, as well physique. With one clever joke about a persons mother he could take the acting scene by storm and twist it with his porky fingers into something totally new and accommodating.

“ The saying ‘your mom is as fat as a whale’ is kind of getting old, isn’t it? Stale. Some of us need to step the your mom game up and I feel like that is my duty as a paid comedian- shocking, I know- to do. So, instead of ‘your mom is as fat as a whale’, how about we spice it up with ‘your mom is as fat as a whale but, holy shit, have you seen Richie Tozier? That guys a whole fucking planet!”

An example that he’d made to a small crowd of fans years ago. Not the best work but, of the recent jokes in his performance that went along with the ‘I’m a fucking lard-ass’ shtick, it was one of the more forgiving jests.

Especially since it wasn’t him that wrote them.

“ Went to a restaurant the other day- not anything new- and ordered a chicken breast. Yeah! Only one, you see, I’m working on my figure. But, here’s the real kicker, when I finished ordering the waiter looked me dead in the eyes, and said ‘You sure that’s enough? Would you like the whole chicken instead?’. I was frankly flabbergasted, how dare he- don’t you think? He got me so worked up, that I ordered two full chickens and the whole Shazam of potatoes just to spite him! Even took the whole rack of cupcakes when he asked if that was all. But, oh boy! I Sure showed him ‘would you like the whole chicken’ when I asked for seconds.”

The audience had gotten a real hoot out of that one. It’s self deprecating comedic language, the only legal way for people to laugh at without back lash, brought in more viewers than the past few years had been. Life got better. His manager held off dropping his sorry ass as a client, the money he earned went headfirst into satisfying his addiction for late night donuts, and the ghost writer got a pretty hefty pay grade.

Yes, Richie himself was a toy made to act by some other man’s words. Words that could be hurtful to his being and leave his appetite now profoundly hungrier. So greedy and lusting for food that, if none was given, it brought a great pain. Hunger pains. A feeling he’s never had to experience since the long forgotten qualities of his childhood. Where he’d survive days off of stale crackers washed down with water. Nothing else.  
They’d gotten so bad once, the hunger pains, that he’d nearly eaten a soap bar that reminded him of butter. A hallucination. 

The ordeal was something truly scary, and humiliating, at the same time that he almost gathered the courage to cut the jokes all together and work on something new. Like, his acting career, perhaps? A little motivation to shave off a the weight. 

The camera adds ten pounds and, with Richie, its stretch is no less merciful. 

He was greeted with choked laughter at his weekly meeting and publicly abashed by one of the writers named- Josh? Jake?- that dangled a pink frosted donut in his face, tauntingly. A cocky smile on his sharp young features and New York- New Jersey?- accent a crusty bagel against the knife that held Richie’s gooey cream cheese heart.

Melting it with his unforgiving heat.

“ You can’t just quit us now, trashcan. We made your ass- practically fucking pumped all that money down your fat gullet! You can’t back out now without the threat of losing your whole career cause, honestly big man, Hollywood’s not really looking for..your type of actor. They wants dames with big boobs- not you! Ta’ get yah a shot in the spotlight would requia’ ah millennia’s time of work! Practically impossible! Unless you’re Jonah Hill but, that man still has ah hard time at staying slim. The fat ass-“ Some co-writers sitting by Richie winced. They gave him pity. “ -I bet that, even if we got ya down a few, it would all come back ten fold! And then what? You’d be out of a job, fatter and livin’ off rats in the alley that think you’re some big hunk’a stinkin’ cheese we’d thrown out! A fuckin’ nobody!” The writer leaned his trim body over the table to jab a finger in Richie’s stomach. Pointed canines reflecting in his shocked brown eyes.  
“Just face it, trashman! The acting scene isn’t so good for you- for your brand- for us! Give it a rest on your blubbering! Read a book! Get a gym membership! Go scarf down a whole Chick-fil-A for all I care! Just keep yah fat nose out of our business, let us work, and you’ll have wads of cash pouring in faster than you can suck a milk shake down your no-neck!”

The writer sat back with a smirk and smacked obnoxiously on his donut. Licking the pink frosting off his lip while Richie stared him in the eyes like a deviant. 

Like a devil.

Richie thought Jeremy- he cant get the name right- had looked handsome. A ruff nut with a stylish mullet but, after coming back to the realization that Henry Bowers was alive, he realized the two had noticeably similar features.

The whole table was attached onto him. Their eyes flashing with disgust, embarrassment, and....pity. Richie blinked sloppy while pulling his shirt out of a roll in his back and did nothing to reprimand the young man.

No one said anything. 

The meeting atmosphere was tense after that. Richie’s manager fiddled with papers of Hulu confirmations- something he’d wanted to surprise the group with, at the time but, made a strict verdict not to- and made a show of it to shuffle them erratically behind sheets of notes from last meetings rehearsal.  
His eyes darted from the table and back. Shinning face an array of emotions that just screamed conflict-ion.

Frankly, it was an easy decision to make but, he guesses, maybe Steve’s head wasn’t screwed on just right.

Take the side of a man he’s only hired to make a quick buck off of, or...defend the only man that gave his dying business a chance.

Such a tough decision to make- oh, what ever will he do?!

Richie left the meeting that night with a sharp stone wedged in his heart. Locking himself in his house for a week long depression.  
Richie denied to himself and anyone that asked how many times he ordered take out- around four to five times per day- and always reminded himself to dispose of the trash before bed.  
He didn’t want to remember the shameful actions that occurred in his shadowy mansion...it would only strike a heavier, ravenous ache for cheese pizza and fried rice. A binge that could never end until his stomach pinned him to his seat- sometimes forcing him some nights to sleep upright on the couch- or vomit finally surged a way through his grease slicked throat and the smell forced him to take a bath and call the cleaning service.

Those days were usually the end of his ‘sudden’ bought of emotion- him clean and sick from sitting in grease- and, the day after, it was like the past weeks events never occurred. That it was just him in a state of limbo and no rest. No prior anxiety of the humiliation he endured in front of friends- near family- that did nothing to defend him.

( Maybe he drugged himself?)

Either way, when showing his face after days of radio silence the next meeting was down one red headed writer, and an Hulu contract was waiting on his desk. As well a blue frosted, vegan donut.

Blueberry. His favorite....but not anymore.

Respectively, Richie declined the offer. And the pastry was thrown into the outside trash bin. 

For the rats to eat.

His manager had tried to argue with him, convince Richie he was making a mistake. 

“ A Hulu contract is not something anyone can easily get their hands on! It takes talent, hard work, and a good heart! That’s you, Richie! You earned it fair ‘n square! Not like those idiots at Netflix that take whatever stupid, teen angst pitch they can get their hands on! You’re an underestimated celebrity, Richie! Overlooked! Taking this will be your one big shot at showing the world that Richie Tozier is not just a fucking joke! But a determined, serious actor! Please, Richie! Just...just think about it...for me..for yourself.”  
Steve left behind a fading sadness and overpacked lunch pouch in his rush to leave. Half an eaten sandwich, strawberry yogurt, an apple, two cheese sticks, and a granola bar. Richie took one peak...then forgot about in the communal refrigerator.

He speculated it was a ploy to regain his trust- and right he was.  
The next few mornings found his desk refilled with a bowl of chocolate peppermint candies. Random bits of sweets appeared in his drawers. Full soda cans left in one of those budlight covers near his window.  
But it didn’t stop there.

Listeners at ‘the’ meeting dropped by to chat with him about nonsense only just to dump their half eaten snacks in his lap with true, ashamed smiles.  
Richie found it disgusting.

Especially at lunch- it was the worst. Steve would come by every day to share a scoop of peanut butter and apple slices with him. Painfully evident at attempting to ‘savior’ his meal between bites so that it did nothing but force the comedian to ravish most slices and lick the peanut butter off the spoon himself.

A sweet gesture but, considering Richie would always finish the candies and soda before lunch, his stomach started to become rather cramped.

He didn’t dare say it though.

One day, Steve blatantly sat an unpeeled orange with two cheese sticks on his desk. Making no move to dig in himself, Steve sat expectantly waiting for Richie to ask for help at stripping the orange skin off- as his fingers were likely too swollen and stiff- with his butt on the desk and dark pupils illuminated with a white circle.  
Steve didn’t leave until the orange was all gone.  
The cheese sticks were left untouched. Having gotten to room temp, Steve placed them in the surprisingly vacant mini fridge that had been installed without Richie’s permission.

Filled with beer and soda.

When Steve brought a full blueberry smoothie and vegan bagel for Richie to eat- after the man had just scarfed down a full bowl of jelly beans, four big gummy packs, and two sodas- was where the line started to wavier.

Richie began to close his blinds, as well turn the lights off, in his office after that. A mid day nap being much more desirable than his manager passive aggressively trying to weigh out the ton of junk food he ate in secret with healthy snacks.

And, Richie knew how desperate Steve must of felt, how determined, to sway Richie’s opinion that he would WASTE time to interact with him instead of only talking to him every few weeks to check up on a sketchy joke. It was heartwarming.

“ Richie, Buddy, Babe. He was wrong. All that shit he said, all of it, was fuckin’ bull. You’re a great actor, man...and an even better person. The only thing ‘right’ about what he said is that Hollywood would ruin you. In the worst way- make you hard and coked out. Fucking you’ve seen the news- all these actors dying young of drug over dose, murder, suicide....We all love you, Rich, and we all just want what’s best for you and, if being an actor is that then, we’ll support you through it! All of us...but, you have to know that this life is full of jealous people. People who want to get you down or do what...what he did but, Richie- Buddy, you can’t hang onto that forever. It’s not worth it, it’s unhealthy. You need to let go of the toxicity in your life and...live! So, please, Richie....give it a chance...please.”

Steve gave him the puppy dog eyes while pushing the contract papers into his sweaty hands. Skin buzzing with nervousness. A loose smile on his face that matched a set of glossy, tree bark eyes.

It was the most unprofessional thing Steve had ever done in front of Richie...and he’s also seen the comedian fully unclothed.  
(They never talk about it.)

But, with a monotone voice, Richie still declined.

“If he was wrong...and what he said wasn’t good then,...why did no one care? Why did no one stop him? I’m sorry, Steven but, I can’t do this....I’m not, I’m not good for it! And- and you might think that, and you all might want this for me but....after what happened, after what none of you did to push for my idea, I’ve had second thoughts so, no, Steve. I’m sorry, but this isn’t for me. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He didn’t go to work the next day. And no one called to chastise him for not saying he wouldn’t be there.  
They must of finally gotten the hint...but the peppermint bowl was still always full, coworkers kept him company during breaks- with or without the snacks- and lunches were always his time to ‘relax’ for a moment. To have his ‘me’ time.

Steve ceased trying to persuade him, as well, stopped speaking to him for days. Richie felt...sorta disturbed by it.....the silent treatment he was getting from the one man who never gave up on him settled an uncomfortable weight in his gut. Nostalgia.  
He started eating more oranges, vegan pastries, and apples with a spoon of peanut butter. The cheese sticks still tasted like ass but, if he ate them straight out of the fridge, they were bearable.

Richie stocked his mini fridge full of them, and forgot about the list of takeout numbers he kept by his beside. His hands now periodically sticky with fruit juice than pizza grease, and stomach rumbling for a cold glass of water than soda.

It was multiple weeks, Richie forgot to keep track, later that Steve did speak to Richie about writing his own material again.  
That was what reminded him of the meeting...and, that night, he stuffed himself full of regular donuts and cake till he couldn’t reach the box on his counter.

The same tiring thoughts swirling in his brain.

Deep down what that writer- he swears his name is Jimmy- said he knew was, partially, true. The theatre could not be, was not, ready for his act.  
For it was nothing but an ashamed, gluttony inspired play.

Not made for any respected stages, or directors.

...

Richie coughed into his hand. Thick frosting and whole cookie bits obstructing his loud pants in a glob hanging onto the back of his throat. Swallowing, he longed for a fresh glass of cold milk to wash it down.  
The ghastly stained cup on his coffee table sat empty of the beverage. And the thought of heaving his packed paunch on a two minute, make it six, stretch into the kitchen made his face turn green.

The way he walked was also an impending downfall in his mind. Swinging one redwood thigh at a time, his free hanging stomach clapping against them, was like watching a cartoon. It couldn’t of been real to anyone at first glance. The laboringly easy strides that any normal man, or woman, could make was now decreased ten fold as each five steps he took required five minutes of harsh breathing.

And it was twenty steps to the kitchen.

Richie gave a cheeky smile and fell into the roll of what he does best- taking his mind off of sustenance- making a clown of himself.

“ Would it hurt your feelings if I said the person in the mirror was actually your mother?” Nailed it.

It was a perfect opportunity for Bill to say, ‘ You sure it wasn’t Ed’s mom instead? Cause I don’t think my mother had one foot in the grave and one hand inside a KFC bucket.’ A classical joke! Very funny, no?

Bill didn’t take it...well, of course he didn’t. He has the mind of a writer, not a professional clown.

Richie was actually glad for that fact.

The author wrinkles his nose with scrunched lips, almost disappointed by the answer. He glanced at Steve with a stagnant lipped smile, and then back to Richie. 

“My moms dead, ya asshole. You need not have respect for the passed, and, for that you shall be haunted by her ghost!” His lips smoothed out into a carefully calculated smile. The crows feet of his eyes starting to look like smile lines.

Richie didn’t question the unfamiliar ‘tension’ between his friends, and continued his joke.

He feigned a woeful sigh. Bringing a hand to his head, as if feeling faint, Richie put on a show.

“ Oh, how tragic! The love of my life gone without my blessing! Had I known she was dead sooner- I may just of gotten her a farewell cake!” The losers tensely snickered at that, nothing more.” Poor, poor Mrs.Denbrough-Tozier, she was a good one, I will miss her dearly...but, not even her beauty could rival the spectacle that was, my one true love, Sonia! A true spit fire in the sheets!”

Eddie squawked out an indecent curse, one that had the losers holding their aching stomachs and Richie desperately- but unnoticed- keeping his own from blowing a shirt button.  
Leaning over the coffee table- a flash of crooked teeth and sewer smell tingling the comedians spine- the smaller man shoved Richie’s shoulder. It was neither hard, nor very effective. His hand seemed to sink in the comedians chicken winged arm, and stay there, than bounce back with the sting of a hit. 

The risk analysts fingers tingled, but not from the slap of skin, as he pulled back.

“ You’re so disgusting, Richie!” Eddie spit the unheated insult. A broken sentence through wheezing laughter.” Do I have to remind you that my mothers been dead longer that any of ours?! So, unless your dick can reincarnate the fucking dead- you’re just a necrophiliac!”

Richie gripped his tightening shirt in tears. Thundering booms of laughter violently shaking a stomach that felt as air tight as a beach ball.

“Oh! Eddie Kaspbrak gets off a good one!” He gripped his stomach harder, pulling it up a bit, as the bottom of his shirt began to ride up. Showing off a sliver of white flesh covered in stretch marks.

Eddie smiled at the familiar saying, but kept up his ‘angry’ persona to humor his friends.  
“ It shocks me how many people come to your shows with how old your material is. Do they not know what ‘flavor’ is?”

Richie stuck out his tongue, playfully.  
“ I don’t know Eds but, I’m guessn’ it’s the same reason as to why the stick up your ass hasn’t made you any less fiery throughout the years.” Eddie let his jaw drop, and the smile of Richie’s face grew so big, the fat on his cheeks made his eyes swing nearly closed. Making him look like one of those chubby Asian babies.

Cute.

While the other losers, except for Bill and Stan, gripped their aching sides, Beverly set down Richie’s plate. Catching said man’s attention with the loud clank against his coffee table.

Why did she hold onto it for so long?

Smiling brightly, Bev leaned into Richie’s soft body, slim figure nearly being enveloped, and pinched his double chin. Rubbing it between her finger tips like a ball of dough. 

Richie gasped at the unexpected contact. Trying to pull his head away, Richie only succeeded in wiggling his stomach over Stan’s cold hand and having Bev hold on tighter to his ‘fluff’.  
Throwing her head back with a chuckle, ignoring Richie’s uncomfortable body language, she said.” Beep beep, Trashmouth!” Physically spitting on his shirt with excitement.

Stan upturned his lip at Beverly’s behavior. Watching her with a heat filled flare until she, finally- after giving the man between them a sloppy kiss- pushed herself away and picked up the drink that’s ice had melted long ago.  
Her smile while drinking water downed lemonade turned the boiler on in Stan’s belly.

The shivering of underused thigh muscles beneath Stan’s fingers brought alive tremors of fat waves that enveloped, developed, then enveloped again as his friends thigh bounced up and down rhythmically. 

Well, jiggled.

An effort to escape that strange predicament, as well, a side effect of the mans conscious being too aware of the extra space he takes up. The anxiety of how one would feel if his flabby thigh even met their skinny kneecaps.  
But, it’s not like Beverly showed any distaste with it....clearly.

Stan found the whole act silly. Leaning over tightly clasps knees, as he himself was self conscious of thigh on thigh touch, he flashed a curious brow at the redhead. 

She gave Stan a smirk. The lust in her eyes feeding off the sight of a thick, back roll pronounced by the strained fabric as unseen drips of sweat rolled down her face because of unholy thoughts- no doubt- was just the signs Stan himself had been with-holding hours ago.

It was deplorable behavior- he was ashamed of it, himself.

Beverly licked her supple lips. Sly, teal eyes stealing a floating glance at the wobbling fat under Richie’s chin, and went back to carrying on a conversation long since interrupted by the two men’s joking.

Stan strained his smile and played the part of a interested friend as Mike- the poor sweat heart- rambled on about how different California was from Derry, how beautiful it was.

“ It’s just so nice, the hills and the beaches. Nothing at all like the quarry. I miss the woods, though. Here it’s kinda all paved and crowded with people. No big forests that are lush with vegetation or wet with morning due. Maybe Georgia would be a nice place for me? I don’t know, I’m still-“

They desperately needed to get him out more, and Stan desperately needed to have a talk with a certain two people. 

He rubbed circles into the softness of Richie’s thigh- heart swelling with something else as the man’s trembling ceased and, surly, aching muscles slackened- while inconspicuously eyeing the two bleeding obvious convicts.

Bill was outright staring at the place where Stan’s hand disappeared under the bigger man’s flab but, he said nothing.

Stan finally gave a smirk.

The two had to think they were being smart about this. Their longing looks and too comfortable clutches just oozed an unseen need within them. Something dark, lurking, and ready to strike as soon as the time is right.  
When it’s vulnerable.

A choked breath just had to push its way through Stan’s air pipe as he thought of the situation Richie might of been in had Bill, or Bev, found him first. Naked, and pathetically wriggling in his own tub with his face adorably frustrated like a baby trying to walk.  
He could only imagine what outcome would happen next...and it made him feel dizzy.

Stan shook his head, and removed the hand from Richie’s thigh as the heat radiating off the fat was starting to make his fingers sweat. Settling back into the indent of a body that’d been sitting there for years, Stan could only playfully roll his eyes at his dramatics.

They were friends- all close friends that wouldn’t hurt a single hair on the others head.....much. What could of possibly transpired between Bill, or Bev, with Richie had he been the one late? Surly they would of helped him out, as he did but, they might of been more forward with it. Whispered sweet nothings into his ear to soothe him, and reassure the man that he was, in fact, not disgusting with a bite to his soft shoulder.  
Made him feel accepted...where Stan had been embarrassed and over whelmed.

That thought was what made Stan believe his awkwardness during the whole ‘process’ let Richie to believe Stan didn’t like him. Or, thought he was disgusting.

But, no. He said he was not...Stan said they loved him, and he meant it. Not a lie was slipped off his tongue in that bathroom and he’ll take that to his grave- if he has to.

Stan crosses his arms while tilting his head. A small smile appearing on his face while Mike talked and talked about what places he was dying to visit and which monuments would be the most interesting.

And, just like that, a calmness settled over the atmosphere. They talked, interrupted, and joked like normal friends. No extra emotion radiated off their tightly wound bodies, and no suspicious eye contact was made unless to hint further at a joke, or question, they were making.

Yes, it was nice. The sun began to set outside and the thought of what to do next all weighed in their heads as good and drinks slowly began to disappear from their silverware, and a lethargic feeling dotted their foreheads with a cool sweat.

There was a pool outside, Bill thought alongside Stanley. Maybe they could take a dip? Or, just lay out and watch the stars in the cool night air.

Laying against each other like animals snuggling for warmth.

“ Your pool heated, Trashmouth?” Or swim, swimming is good.

Stan turns around in his seat, the others look beyond the back of his head, and sets sights on Eddie peaking through the blinds and out to the back deck. 

Richie couldn’t turn around to face Eddie- and the embarrassment was popping all over his face- so he buried himself with tearing up the napkin in his has. Acting as if it were more important than his friend and Stan gave him pity.

“Yeah, it’s a full on super pool. Heated, cooled, rainbow lights- hey! It could even bring you a smoking hot bikini babe, if you want it to.” 

Beverly covers her mouth with painted nails and nudges Richie’s droopy knee with her foot. “ Bet you’ve had a lot of fun without us around then, eh? Trashmouth?”

Richie waited a beat to respond to her by tearing the napkin rather loudly, and then snickered.” You know, the more you guys ask me about what I do in my personal life, the more I’m starting to believe you guys want to hug tie me down.” Beverly’s eyes froze, as if she’d been caught, and her body stiffens away from Richie.  
The big man looks over at her. Face plastering a goofy smile.

“ Should I be aware all of you are in a sex ring together? And, can I join?” He laughed at Beverly’s sigh of relief, masked with annoyance, and didn’t recoil back as the woman poked his sides.

“ Beep, Beep, Richie.” 

Stan shakes his head at the childish display and gives Ben a pointed look. Eyes hinting back and fourth to Beverly as a sign of ‘get your woman before I do something’ and Ben is immediately on his feet with an understanding nod.

“ Yeah, I say that’s a good idea Eddie, I’ll meet you guys out there.” He starts heading to his room, but stops momentarily to look back at Beverly.” You coming, Bev?” 

Beverly looks as if she wants to refuse but, with all eyes on her, Stan lets his heart beat in triumph as she agrees and watches the two disappear up the stairs.

Eddie is already off to his room, Mike following. 

Bill begrudgingly is off a minute after- once he realizes Stan won’t be leaving the trashmouth’s side anytime soon- and stomps off into his guest room. Face flushing red.

Stan only lets his shoulders relax for a second as the door slams shut, then he’s pushing himself off the couch to extend a hand to Richie.

The comedian gives a bashful look and grip the others smaller hand with his. Grunting loudly he pulls himself to the end of his seat and braces a hand on a thick thigh to stand up. Stomach pressing tightly in his shirt and then falling down to just above his knees. The outline of his gargantuan belly clear beneath his stretchy pants.

Richie’s breathing is heavy just from standing up. He wipes stubby hand across the top of his forehead and flicks away small beads of sweat with a quick flick of the wrist. Tilting his body side to side- looking around fo any stray losers that might sneak up on them- he turns back to Stan with a betrayed look.

“ Did you tell Bill? I’m not angry if you did- cause I didn’t say you didn’t have to keep it between us but, be honest...” Richie sighs and looks down at the floor ashamed.” Did you tell him?” 

It’s a fair question. Stan might of even wondered it had he been in Richie’s shoes but, the anger that pools down his throat doesn’t mix right with the acid in his stomach. He feels like he what’s to throw up at the slight waiver in Richie’s voice. Sounding like he had just hours ago...abashed and bracing for a familiar judgment.

Perceptions he’s had to encounter on a daily business, no doubt..and that just made Stan want to punch a wall.

Hooking a finger under Richie’s chin, tilting the man’s squishy face up, Stan gifts a sad smile.  
“ I didn’t tell them, Richie. I promise.” He lets his hand drop and Richie frowns at the loss of contact.” It’s not my place to do so....Even if you didn’t tell me to keep it a secret I wouldn’t of told them. I value your trust, Richie and, I would be a fool to break that.” 

Tremors run along Richie’s bottom lip, visible chin dimpling with withheld sobs, and eyes start to grow wet. He picks at a place on his side that’s skin is being uncomfortably confined to by the shirt, and lets his arms swing freely next to his love handles.  
Stan goes in for a hug, and Richie lets him hold his shaky shoulders. Mentally pleased by the fact Stan didn’t dare move beyond what was expected of him. His skinny arms wrapped tightly around his body- well, as much as he could hug- and only that. No palms sunk into wobbly skin, no fingers rolled his fat like bred dough, and no bodies rolled into an overfilled stomach as if it were a bean bag.

He just...hugged Richie. 

It was nice. 

Richie was just about to wrap the man in his own hug but pulled back at the sound of a bedroom door opening. Even further stepping away from each other to act like it was friendly conversation when Ben and Beverly rounded the corner.

Tension seemed to spike temporarily like a needles sting.

Making eye contact with the accountant, Ben hid a thumbs up from Beverly in front of his chest as they passed. Stan acknowledged it with a nod and flashed a thumb back. He ignored the second set of footsteps.

Beverly rounded the corner and raised a brow at the two lone losers, still in their regular clothes, standing together. She hesitated a step outside the sliding door, mouth twitching with a question, but the muffled sound of Ben calling pulled her attention away. She smiled brightly at the unseen Ben and closed the door behind her.

The atmosphere’s heat dropped.

Stan slumped his posture just as Richie unclenched his stomach. The massive ball of fat nearly throwing Richie into his front, had it not been for Stan to brace him.

They laughed about it. Faces flushing as one of Stan’s hands caught Richie on his breast, and pulled back like awkward teenagers that just had their first kiss.

Stan shifts as a silence falls over them and rubs the back of his neck. Richie does the same. 

He smiles happily and throws a thumb over his shoulder.” We should probably...” he trails off, but the intention of what he wanted to say is clear.

Richie nods frantically.” Yeah, yeah. We should...do that. Wouldn’t want to be swimming in my underwear. Heh...” 

The air is stagnant for a moment. Stan speaks again.

“Do you- do you need any help with-“

“ No, no. I’m good Stanley. I may be a useless beanbag, but I can still dress myself.”

It’s an attempt to lighten the mood, but all Stan feels is a tug in his heart. He nods wordlessly and gives Richie’s shoulder a pat.  
He doesn’t turn around when entering his guest room. And when he comes back out, dressed in light green swim trunks and a towel hanging off his forearm, Richie is gone and Bill’s bare, lightly freckled back is disappearing into the back yard.

Stan looks to the stairs, as if Richie would just appear, and counts for a minute. Tapping his foot along to the numbers in his head.  
“One...tap...two...tap...three...tap.”

Swallowing thickly when not a soul moves upstairs he trudges out the door with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Further growing when he counts three heads already swimming in the pool, Bill standing by the waterside with his arms crossed, and not one sign of the man he wants to see.

He doesn’t want to panic- no, Richie can take care of himself- so he calmly walks over to one of the pool chairs and lays down on his towel. Listening for the sliding door to pull back as he scans an old magazine left on the nearby table.  
The only reason he knows the paper is old is, not because it was worn down- it was actually in very good shape- but, because it was an issue that included the very beginnings of Richie’s career. Wearing a sharp suit and slacks, the comedian is posed with his hips jutted forward and arms crossed below his chest. A charming smile sparkling on his youthful features.

What shocks Stan the most is how skinny he looks. Sure, Richie as a slight double chin- but he has a neck- and the suit is a bit snug around his middle- which is drastically smaller than now- and pinches the man’s armpit region but, he looked...good. Healthy, clean shaven, someone who could run a few blocks without passing out. 

Looking nothing at all like the man Stan only met again three days ago....not even in the way he smiled.

What happened?

Stan looks up from the magazine to the porch door. Straining his eyes for any movement beyond the glass- he sees nothing- a worry bubble pops in his stomach.  
It’s been ten minutes. Beverly, Eddie, Mike, and Ben are absently floating in the pool with mindless chit chat every now and then. 

Bill is now sitting on the poolside- arms holding him up behind his back- and is watching the sunset with a cut stare on his face. Thinking.

Stan, out of the corner of his eyes, has seen the man look to the porch every few minutes. Frown deepening as what he wanted to be there- Stan believed they both wished the same thing- never appeared. He picked at the grass growing in between a crack in the cement, and the abruptly stood up. Catching the eyes of, not just Stan but, all the losers as he shook the excess water of his legs like a dog. 

Looking to the people in the pool, Bill pointed to the house behind him.” Gotta use the bathroom, be right back.” Swiftly turning on his heel, Bill jogged up the wooden steps without waiting for a reply. 

Eddie brushed strands of wet hair out of his eyes with quizzing eyes. Lips scrunched up like he was about to spit, Eddie shrugged his shoulders and called to the author.” Bring some drinks back when you’re done! Beer!” He yells, dripping hands cupped around his mouth.” And go find Richie! Tell him to get his unfunny ass out here! For all we know the guy probably got lost in his own house!”  
Ben and Mike simultaneously splash Eddie as Beverly tries to keep herself from tipping over the pink float she was relaxing on as she laughed. 

Bill, not turning around, makes a loud vocal ‘mhm’ while throwing a loose thumbs up behind his back. Then disappears into the house.

An urge in Stan’s nerves is pushing him to follow the actor- make sure he actually is using the bathroom and not peeping in on the helpless- okay, he’s not helpless-comedian.  
He doesn’t, though, as a shadow cascades over him an the sound of the chair beside him creaks loudly.

Ben sits in the dying sun with dripping tanned skin. Hair plastered to his perfectly cut cheek bones and facial hair littered with drops of water.  
Stan sets the magazine down with a blank stare and crosses his arms underneath his chest. 

“What’s up, Ben?” He asks, surprised with the convincing Interest in his voice. 

Ben smiles sweetly. Shrugging his shoulders as he leans back into the chair.” Nothin’ much. Just noticed you over her by your ‘lonesome and thought you could use a buddy.” His brown eyes sparkle with yellow flakes that swim in his iris, and Stan has to think their made of solid gold. 

“ That’s nice of you Ben but, I wouldn’t want to keep you from the fun.” Stan waves over to the three, oblivious of their conversation, splashing each other.” Go back with the others. I’m fine watching from a distance.”

Stan gives the most convincing smile he can muster. Lips thinning as he bites the chapped skin off with his teeth. 

Ben’s smile drops into a supple frown, bottom lip poking out more than his top- a quality that reminded Stan of Richie- as he lets his head fall down to his chest.

He goes quite. Just the sounds of adult laughter mixing with cool wind whipping by their ears leave Stan’s head whistling. The magazine paper beneath him rustles- catching the architects attention with a glance.

Stan sees the man’s eyes soften at Richie’s printed smile. He shuffles back from the paper when two calloused fingers rub over it with a tenderness he’s only seen in movies.  
Ben grimaces.

“ Something had to of happened to him...you know.” His voice is barely above a whisper. A dash of hurt sleeping through its cracks.  
He pulls back from the paper and rest his muscled arms on hairy thighs.” For him to get like...it’s...it’s not natural for a man in his mid twenties,” Ben must of done more research about them all before they arrived.”- to Just blow up like that, right?” He tilts his head, troubled.” And, I hope I’m not being rude about this- am I being rude?” 

Stan hesitates to shake his head, and Ben takes that with a frustrated huff.” It’s just....come on, Stan. You’ve had to of noticed how different he acts around us now? He’s not...himself. He doesn’t really joke...just acts. Doesn’t speak up for himself- I told Beverly what she did was out of line and, she felt terrible about it.” Ben grips the edge of his wet swim trunks.” And, she wouldn’t of done it had Richie said so- and it sound so ignores saying it like that- but, she thought he would like it, be comfortable with it....you know how he was. Always touching us. Pinchin’ Eddie’s cheeks, tickling us, kissing our shoulders...stuff he liked to do and, in turn, liked for us to do.” He hangs his head, shamed.” We were a touchy group..comforted by bad words and bullies with the others kisses and hugs....am I wrong?” 

Ben’s distraught look makes Stan’s aching heart dip deeper into his body. Lungs slow to circulate air as all the truths Ben has pointed out swarm his head like vultures.

Pale fingers lock themselves with Ben’s darker ones, and then sit in silence. Cold sadness brewing deep in their bones.

Stan sniffs. He can’t imagine what could of possibly happened to Richie from their years separated and- if Ben wasn’t able to find out from searching them online then- they may never know.

Until the man tells them all himself.

But, from the look on his tender friends face, and the evidence from just one, old magazine, whatever occurred before the great ‘Richie Tozier’ name became known was not something that could easily be swallowed...

No pun intended.

...

The house A/C was like an huge gust of arctic wind against Bill’s bare chest. His teeth chatter against one another as hair standing on end arms crossed to cover pointed nipples. 

There’s no bathroom down the hallway he’s doing.

He walks past a dirtied kitchen, and equally disordered living room. Stepping over dropped bits of food with a stiff, hunched back. Bill makes bare foots steps light on wooden ground and strains his ears for any over movement in the house while rubbing some warmth into his tingling arms.

Mumbled talking from beyond a bedroom door tricks Bill into believing he found the correct place but, when opening the door, he realizes the talking is from the outside. Voices- distinctly two of them- openly having a serious sounding conversation just beyond the bedrooms curtain covered window.  
Bill doesn’t stay around long enough to hear a word they say and closes the door.

The house really is like a maze. 

Doors upon doors line the hall in wide spaces. Each painted a blinding white- except for some, which are labeled with homemade signs- something Richie would do- and colorful duct tape.  
The blank doors obviously could be interpreted as empty bedrooms, or storage. But, one door Bill opens is meant to look like a small gym area that’s lights don’t work. Exercise balls, a tread mill, and weights of varying sizes seeming to collect dust in its abyss. Frozen in time since...well, the last time Richie even graced the rooms floor.

Bill had to think if the obese man ever used it, and softly closed the door.

He was beginning to grow frustrated. How can a man Richie’s size be so hard to find? With how creaky the floors- and how thin the walls- were, you’d think it’s be easy to hear the guy thumping around or his heavy breathing hindered by the drywall...weird.

The hallway was coming to an end, as well Bill’s patience, when a whimper from a nearby room- it’s door cracked and labeled ‘ laundry’- caught his attention.

Bill’s breath hitches as a series of grunts and frustrated hums vibrate in his chest. He tip toes as quietly as he can over to the door, and peeks one eye through the crack.

What he sees is nothing but a clear violation of privacy- he nearly gasps in shock.

Richie- with his roll filled back turned to the door- is half nakedly struggling to pull a, rather tight looking, pair of twin trunks over his wide backside.  
Half of his is already squeezed as much as it could be within the non stretchy fabric but, a good portion of the trashmouth’s derrière his hanging over the hem like an over filled muffin. Littered with cellulite and marks instead chocolate chips or fruit. 

But even more delectable.

Bill unconsciously lips his dry lips. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as the big man stumbled and jiggled around in his tight shirt and ill fitting trunks. Flesh slapping together and cascading a wave of ripples down the sides before disappearing under the squeeze of his shorts. 

“ Come on! Come on!” Richie wines with a single, pitiful jump.” You fit last week! There’s no way I could put grow these! I literally got you LAST week!” He slips his hands under the tight hem, fat sides seeming to just engulf them, and tries to tug the fabric up.  
It’s with little success that the trunks scrap up against his skin and then get caught on another swell of chub.

“ Damn you, you piece of shit! I knew I should of gotten a 6X!” Richie’s voice waivers with mucus only created by the need to cry. It’s heartbreaking.

Bill wants to intrude but, his feet stay planted on the ground. Seemingly cemented into the ground.

The wrongness of what he was doing was on so many levels but, even he had to unashamedly admire the beautiful way Richie’s uncovered curves settle in free hanging air.

Richie’s butt- for example- is two scrumptious balls of uncooked dough. Round and plump with a volume most oversized men Bill has seen lacked. The soft, untouched skin just begging for the reddening slap of soles hand and the aggressive grips that would have fat pooling through the hands gaps and send it into a mess of shakes  
And, of shakes, the man’s monstrous middle can’t seem to stop. 

Richie waddles to the side, facing a mirror that Bill’s blind sport could not see, and the amount of hang Bill could not see when the man was sitting is eye blowing.  
It’s pale flesh has basically blocked all sight of the blue trunks when standing in front of him. No longer confined to a taut shirt, it’s fat hangs like a weighted blanket all the way down to Richie’s puffy knees. Slapping against them when he walks, and quivering at every little breath Richie takes- the stomach is like an ongoing machine.

Never settling. 

What Bill wouldn’t give to just....touch it. Caress the droopy fat in his skeleton hands. Squeeze it. Shake it. Straddle it with his thin thighs and give it a big hug. Sleep on it like a mini bed and let his body sink down and down until he’s enveloped in a fine wrap of warm fat.

Sleeping soundly...

Bill’s fantasies are a high in his brain- unreal and unforgivable. 

He shouldn’t be doing this. 

Standing back from the door, he gives the sliver of white flesh that can bee seen through the crack a longing look. But shakes his head and starts to tip toe way with his head hung low.  
The warm feeling in his heart falling like a Thermostate in ice water. 

He reaches the end of the hallway when a sudden ‘scrape!’ Echoes through the empty hall, and a joyous ‘hell yeah!’ follows. 

Richie had finally shoved himself into those tight...tight trunks...and was about to come waddling down this hall to soak his body in a heated pool....

Bill let the thought fade as the door opening sent him off into a scamper out the porch door. 

He collects himself enough to make it look like he just jumped down the stairs, and casually walks over to the pool with his hands in his pockets.

Sitting back down on the pool side. ignoring the questioning looks he was given, Bill finally slipped his whole body into the pool and kept his back to the door.  
The tips of his ears and shoulders dusting pink as Richie’s laborious breathes grew loud and the porch steps started to creak under his weight. 

The others looked behind Bill at the trashmouth with different expressions that they quickly hid with smiles. 

Want, Bev. Interest, Mike and...slight disgust but, relief, Eddie.

It was a good guess that, if he turned around Stan might have a look similar look along those lines. Same with Ben but, more obvious. Smiling at Richie with tight, wobbling lips...ready for a taste.

Bill sighed and shook his head at the nasty thoughts. That was no way to think about a friend...especially, a friend of Richie’s magnitude.

Rolling his shoulders in the hot water, Bill turned his head and froze.

Out of the corner of his eye- Stan was giving him a dead filled stare. Menacingly numb and a bone chilling threat.

Bill swallows thickly and turns back to catch the last glimpse of sun light disappear behind California palm trees.

It was going to be a long night....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one was definitely longer than the last- I apologize for that as I might re-write chapter one sometime in the future- but, for now, I hope you are satisfied with this chapter and will stick around for more!
> 
> Thank you for reading, leave a comment if you want to and have a nice one! :)


	3. ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie eats when he is scared- but no ones ever caught him doing it before...until now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for being such a lazy person and not updating :(( I’ve been busy with school and, since it was closed cause of the virus, this was the only time I could work on it 
> 
> It’s not that long, probably lazy, but it’s something ! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy :)!

“ Richie! Richie! Wake up!”

“Awe, yeah, there he is buddy!”

“ Hey, Richie! I think I killed it!”

“ I think I killed it, Ric-“

Richie doesn’t know why he has those dreams of Eddie- Stan, the losers- dying...or why the clown is always there.  
They killed It, didn’t they? Mike sucker punched the little fuck into his stolen grandma antique and burned the shit alive. 

They won...but why does he still dream of It, then?

Why does he dream of himself- smaller, skinny- getting caught in a familiar blast of white light- the Deadlights!- and seeing just....just the most awful things. 

Mike being eaten alive. Speared with a claw.

Ben suffocating in dirt. Burning to death.

Bev drowning in a stall that quickly fills with blood. Being beaten to death by her husband.

Bill getting ripped the shreds in a mirror maze. His young self shooting a bullet through his older selfs skull.

Stanley sitting lifelessly in a bathtub of pink water. His head being cut off and sprouting spider legs.

Eddie being stabbed by Henry Bowers. Dangling over Richie, blood from his moth dripping onto his face, before being tossed away like a rag doll. 

Richie being able to do nothing but...watch. Sit back, pathetically keening, as body parts and organs fly over his head. Shrivel at the consistency of heated blood pooling down his body.   
And watch.

...what are the dreams for? 

He doesn’t know.

The phantom feel of warm blood still lingers on his face- even after scrubbing it red with cold water- as he hobbles into the kitchen. His low hanging stomach, confined into a tight sleep shirt, sways erratically and flops against his puffy thighs with a quiet, skin on cloth, sound. 

Richie has to rest himself against the kitchen counter- totally out of breath- before anymore steps can be taken. 

He flicks on only one of the stove lights, not particularly stable enough to explain to anyone why he was in the kitchen at three o’clock in the morning, and pulls out a bar chair in front of the fridge for him to sit on.   
Wood creaks, and bows, loudly as Richie’s half ton frame slowly rocks back into the chair. He leans back, hoping without hope that it doesn’t break, and relaxes his shoulders. Allowing back fat to overhang on the chairs top.

He shifts once- the huge stomach sitting in his lap only jiggling- as the chair sinks deeper into him the more he leans back. Digging into soft skin with an uncomfortable poke. 

It makes him sick- making his fat chin dimple from a frown- but his stomach still rumbles for a filling snack, and he squeezes the globe of fat with an equally fat hand to try and quell the churning.

Richie signs, scratching his second chin, and struggles to open the fridge with his outstretched, fat hanging, arms. 

He barely wraps a finger around the handle, half a middle finger gripping it, before he’s failing back into the chair with an exhausted sigh. Warm sweat forming on his forehead quickly cooling as the door flings open, sauce bottles rattling as the door collided with the bar behind it, and a pale light baths his skin in white.   
The array of shelves of food look down at him in a mist of heavenly white- to him- that makes his stomach growl with hunger. 

Richie has to wait for his heart rate to stop, and catch a breathe, before he’s heaving him self forward on the edge of the chair. Closing the distance from the fridge door way to his stomach as the low hanging fat wedges between it. Blocking the bottom two shelves from view.  
He panics for a second- thinking his stomach would be stuck in the narrow space- but quickly tosses it aside when the shelf of fat makes holding his plate of leftover cheesecake much easier. 

Richie licks his lips while settling the cool tin on his stomach- shivering at its touch- then doesn’t waste another moment before shoving a handful of the sweet treat into his mouth.

He swallows the mouthful of food- almost not caring about how gross and disgusting it makes him feel- and then immediately shoves another inhuman bite into his mouth before the first is even halfway down his throat. Not taking any care into the way frosting smears and drips all across his face and white sleep shirt. 

Pink frosting smears across his cheeks- and Richie stifles a burp.

The bottom of the silver tin comes into view after seventeen minutes of wordless, fast smacking, silence. Another burp erupts from his thick, frosting lined throat, and the need to keep his dignity slowly wains as it’s quickly followed by another. He doesn’t cover his mouth.  
Richie sets the tin on his bar, licking the opposite hand covered in frosting, and pats his gurgling stomach. An almost high feeling warming up his body as the left over creamy frosting coats his tongue.

His eyes rolls back into his head- lips smacking- as his fat hands grip the huge mass of his stomach. Kneading in like it was a ball of dough. 

‘ That his the spot..’ Richie thinks, absently twirling his stubby finger around a swell of chub. That makes his stomach gurgle.  
Looking down at the enlarged middle- he pats it with a tight smile. 

‘but...I’m still hungry..’

Richie reaches, blindly, for another tin of cakes and cookies as he licks his other hand free of the sticky dessert. His stomach gives another rumble- making it jiggle in his shirt and release a flap of skin from his side.   
He giggles, almost deliriously, while pinching the curve of fat. The warm soft, skin enveloping his digits in a world of fluff.

Like a cloud.

His belly trembles- beging for more food.

He obliges.

Most people wouldn’t eat for a week after that fattening ‘snack’, but his food binge was only justing beginning. And the cakes and cookies would just go to waste, anyway.

Richie huffs, tiredly. His arms shake from exertion of lifting food into his mouth, so he simply places the tin on his chest and digs into his face first.   
Like a pig to his tough. Snorting and messily licking at the desserts in his proximity all the while more crumbs and frosting smoother his cheeks and chin.

His fat chest heaves with every swallow. Man tits, dropping on the sides of his belly, nipples become hard. Poking through the thin shirt.

Richie moans as a blast of chocolate pops in his mouth, and a inhuman snort rattles the dish. Chubby cheeks pushing aside half eaten bits of food while his nose and mouth do all the work.   
Covering his skin in a layer of sticky sugar.

Time is irrelevant to Richie, in this moment, but by the time he finishes his second pan of deserts the clock strikes three forty.   
He abandons, more like throws, the tin somewhere to the right of him- not particularly caring where it lands- as his greedy tongue licks clean the crumbs on his face it can reach...which is not that much. 

He reaches breathlessly- mindlessly- for the buckets of chicken and Chinese rice on the fridge shelf eye level to him. Mouth watering and stomach still calling for food.

Richie doesn’t take the time to lick dessert off his hands as he impatiently shovels the rice into his jiggling jowls. The feel of an unforgiving nightmare slowly fading from his mind as it clouds up more and more with food.   
He moans, fat shoulders deflating, and sucks the rice and frosting off his fingers. 

‘ oh what a pig I’ve become,’ He thinks, slurping up the rice.’ what a disgrace...’

Richie keeps eating.

A single word repeats and over over in his mind as he tosses aside the second box of rice.

‘ EAT ‘

And that’s exactly what he does.

~~~

Sleeping over at anyone’s house has always been a problem for Ben- even at sleep over with friends- he just can’t get comfortable.  
It’s strange to him, too, and he doesn’t understand why it happens.

He blames it on homesickness, but he never feels that way...and then, he thinks it’s the place where he sleeps but figures out that both the floor and the bed are places of which he can never rest peacefully. No matter how comfortable it may be, he always finds himself staring up at the ceiling- surrounded by darkness and chipping crickets- til he grows too bored and wonders off to satisfy it.

Tonight is no different.

Sneaking out of his guest room, on the tips of his toes, Ben quietly creeps past his sleeping friends doors. Gliding down the hall with such swiftness that he thinks if he went anymore careful, he would be flying.

But what halts him from moving forward is the soft glow of orange light illuminating from the kitchen ahead. 

‘ Who would be up this early? ‘ Ben thinks, sneaking forward a bit, holding his breath to listen for sounds of the persons breathing.

He stops just below the doorway entrance to the hallway of guest rooms and, from the sight of a jiggling blob squished into one of the missing bar chairs, he knows exactly who it is...and it makes his chest grow tight. 

Richie either pays no mind to Ben- or just didn’t hear him- and smacks loudly on the chicken from his third Chinese box. Mindless, orgasmic, hums jiggling his cheeks as handful after handful of food is just shoved down his fat gullet.  
Cold juices spill from the sides of his lips, staring them more, as Richie rips fiercely at the meat. 

Ben thinks he hesitates a few times to intervene- scared Richie would shut down at being caught- but the sight of his friend, obviously distressed, further growing himself in n addiction of food pushed him forward.   
He glides across the hardwood floor onto clod tile- shivering at the contact on his uncovered feet- with an arm out stretched. 

Richie lets out an undignified burp. Slurping up the excess juices on the side of his cheeks with a food covered tongue.   
He lets the empty box fall by his fat feet- without a care of the mess it makes when grease comes flying out of it, staining the floor- and instantly plows into the fourth box. 

Ben gulps nervously behind him, scratching at his head. 

‘ what do I do? What do I do?’

He lets Richie get in another two, uninterrupted, messy bites, before laying his hand on the soft man’s fat shoulder.  
His chest hurts when Richie neither acknowledges his presence, nor winces, and keeps munching on the cold food.

This was just proving what he, and Stan, had talked about before.   
Something bad, terrible bad, had to of happened in Richie’s life for him to turn out this...this...disconnected.   
Hypnotized.

‘But what?’

Ben wanted to cry. 

“...Rich?” The man winces under him, but keeps eating, and Ben maneuvers himself in front of the large man so that they come eye to eye.   
He bites his lips and squeezes Richie’s shoulder tightly. Savoring the way his stomach seemed to curl up into a ball of fluff at the softness beneath his fingers.

“ Richie?” That gets his attention, and the once quickly moving jaw stops its chewing to just jiggly freely. Fat fingers grip the box closer to his expansive chest. Smushing bits of food deeper into the already stained shirt.  
Ben flashes a small smile, but worry seeps back onto his prefect features. 

“ Hey, Buddy...what are you doing up so early?” Eating, he thinks dumbly, clearly glancing at the pile of empty food trays on the counter and floor.   
Richie swallows the food in his mouth- lips turning up at the sour taste- and reaches back into the box so he can pull out another piece of chicken with his stubby fingers.   
His brown eyes shinning sadly.

“ I had a nightmare...” Richie lets the chicken stop halfway to his mouth, and stares numbly at the fridge light, chin wobbling.” It was about the clown...and you guys but...it was all..” He trails off for a second, chunky face coiling into a mush of thought.  
“ bad...”

Ben’s face softened more at the sound of his friends timid- usually boisterous- voice. He cups Richie’s cheek, fingers flinching back when Richie hiccups, and caresses it with a tender touch.   
Each loser could relate to having dreams about the thing that haunted their childhoods- hell, each one of them bonded over them.... all except Richie.

He never told them about his dreams- not once. 

And, it may of been the fact he didn’t dream about the clown, but form the look on his friends face told Ben that...this wasn’t the first time it happened...  
Nor was it the first time he woke up at three o’clock in the morning to binge the fear away...obviously...

“ Oh...Richie...” He says it softly.” Why didn’t you tell us?”

The comedian glances down at his food covered shirt, tears gathering in his water line, but doesn’t answer.

‘ he’s ashamed,’ Ben thinks,’ embarrassed at being ‘caught’...’ he stretches his lips, tightly, thinking of what to say.

“ do you...do you want to tell me about it?”

He raises a caring brow, but Richie slowly shakes his head. Face scrunching into a sad frown.   
Ben nods and licks his lips.

Gesturing to the food trays with his head, he asks softly “..does your stomach hurt?” 

Richie takes longer, this time, to answer. He squeezes the piece of meat in his hands, anxiously ripping the fried skin off, and covering he hand with more grease, before nodding.

Ben gives Richie a watery eyed stare. Heart broken at the sad kicked puppy look.  
His lips kiss find middle of Richie’s cheek- untouched by good- and sinks into the fat for a soft kiss.

Ben only pulls back so the feel of warm, soft, skin against his own doesn’t become addicting...  
But he fears it one day will be.

He slowly pushes the fat man’s chicken filled hand away from grease and frosting covered lips, and tries to close the fridge.   
The door bounces back as the fat of Richie’s swollen stomach keeps it from closing. Ben grimaces at Richie’s whimper, rubs a hand down his face, and sets the smushed chicken- as well the box- in one of the empty tins. 

Ben snags a dish towel off the counter, wets it, and carefully wipes the excess food from off his friends face. Trying oh so desperately not to sink his fingers into Richie’s soft cheeks, or upset the man anymore than he already was in his fragile state.

Richie emotionlessly sniffs- with holding full blown sobs as his soft body bounces up and down- as Ben wipes his stubby fingers clean.  
His fat roll of a neck sinks deeper in to his flabby chest as cheeks burn with embarrassment underneath the skinny man’s doe eyes.

‘ he’s disgusted- you’re disgusting- you pig’ Repeats in his head while he pinches at the smallest roll of fat- about two inches- on his side.

Richie doesn’t say a word when Ben carefully envelopes his much smaller hand with his, stopping him from bruising his skin, and only stares forward.

Ben sadly purses his lips, and sighs through his nose.“ Let’s get you up, Richie.” He says, softly, rubbing the man’s bubbling stomach tenderly.” Move you over to the couch...so you can lie down..” Ben leans down to rub at the quiet man’s shoulder, throwing the dirtied towel on the bar.

Richie doesn’t respond, but he shifts his body- stomach making a slight suction cup noise as it pops out from the fridge, rising more unshed tears to his eyes- so Ben can grab both his hands and heave him up.   
It’s fairly easy for the both of them- only a little muscle needed to hoist Richie’s ass up and out of the chair- that Richie’s already waddling off to his living room- hands placed on his grotesquely stretched stomach- before Ben can even close the fridge door. 

He doesn’t care about the fact his weight could break the cough before he’s already flopping into the thing. It makes a loud creak, sure- one that promptly pulls Ben’s attention away from cleaning to make sure Richie didn’t hurt himself- but holds fair. 

From then on settles a quiet, comfortable- but tense- air about the room.

Richie lays on his back, starring up at his popcorn ceiling, while listing to Ben’s feet plot back and forth in the kitchen. Random metallic clinks go on for about five minutes, before it all goes completely silent, and the vibrations of Ben’s footsteps growing closer make Richie’s eyes flutter shut.

He’s tired, but his face scrunches ip painfully at the tight food packed into it, and he can only mewl softly. 

Ben settles at the farthest cushion from Richie’s head, but the closets to his belly, and rubs clam circles into the chub. 

It’s....nice. 

Richie’s painful grunts slowly melt into happy hums as his stomach slowly begins to loosen, and a warm, sleepy, haze drifts to the front of his mind. 

Ben smiles as the large man’s tense face relaxes into a deep sleep. He keeps massaging the stuffed tummy until the living room clock ticks to five am, and the first tired yawns of his night make his eyes grow heavy.

There’s no room on the couch to sleep- unless he wanted to sleep on top of the other man- and all the other furniture in the room looks too small for his muscularly lean frame to fit on comfortable.

The thought of going back to his room- leaving Richie alone- feels...wrong...

He ends up sitting with his back against the couch, head leaning back onto a soft patch of Richie’s stomach for a pillow, and stray blanket draped over his lap.

It takes five minutes of him shifting on his numb butt before sleep over combs him and he’s falling into a world of darkness.

And when he wakes up the next morning, feeling fully rested, the sun shinning in his face with the sounds of Richie’s quiet snoring behind him, he smiles to himself.

Then drifts back off to a cloud filled dream of fluffy blankets and warm, gooey, chocolate chip cookies.

The best hes ever slept away from his own home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was supposed to be kinda sad/fluffy cause, I only think of Ben and Richie as the ‘baby’ couple.  
> Only platonic/romantic with no/not much sexual tension...and I love it 
> 
> Benchie rights...
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoyed- the next one should be longer!!!!
> 
> Thank you for reading- have a good one!  
> :-)

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, this story should not be so much kink as it is just a nice reliever to my inner demons.
> 
> Thank you for reading, feed back is always appreciated- helpful criticism and comments like that. 
> 
> I hope you have a good day/night- hoping to see some of you in later chapters :) thanks for reading!


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